


Caesura

by lizthefangirl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bellarke, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergent, F/M, Fluff, Head and Heart, Laughter, Reconciliation, Some Humor, Spec, Speculation, The 100 (TV) Season 6, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 19:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizthefangirl/pseuds/lizthefangirl
Summary: Post 6x02. Clarke and Bellamy find that they cannot reflect on their actions during the Eclipse alone.





	Caesura

**caesura** ( _noun_ ):

_a break in a verse where one phrase ends and the following phrase begins._

 

* * *

 

Clarke desperately wished to be asleep. Specifically, a few thousand miles above, on a spaceship. Or even as Madi was, curled on a mat in the corner.

She figured maybe if she'd woken up a day later, Shaw would be alive. Her throat wouldn't bear a circlet of bruises. Murphy wouldn't be comatose. Echo and Emori would be able to look each other in the eye. Bellamy. . .

Her fingers trembled as she pressed the cooling, slimy plant to her feverish neck— _aloe vera_. It had been mentioned in her botanical module on the Ark, but she marveled at the soothing sensation, the refreshing scent.  

Hours had passed since their tense meeting with the leaders of this place, ranging from an oddly mild man to a downright viperous woman. Long after her throat was aching from overuse, they'd been assigned lodging in the area, referred to as "Inner Sanctum." Cozy and hospitable, if not for the day's mayhem having thoroughly stripped it of its façade.

In the silence, her knife wetly sank into the flesh of his thigh. Again.

She tried not to wince as she angled her head; in truth, this was only a fraction of the pain Diyoza's shock collar had inflicted. Bruises, not burns. But this wasn't from Diyoza. The distinct, crushed-berry impressions of his hands confirmed that.

_You die—not me!_

Her eyes burned. She tenderly massaged the last of the substance into her skin, also patting some onto her heated face. 

It could have been worse—unspeakably so. While Murphy had survived Bellamy’s attempted drowning, his creeping ebony veins were a dire symptom, according to the locals. 

Clarke had practically embraced death on more than one occasion, often enough that she considered it an acquaintance. She told herself she wasn’t afraid of it at this point, if only for who she would leave behind. But she'd learned the way it scarred when you so much as brushed against it, let alone clasped its hand. That it often took days or weeks before the poignant truth of a narrow survival would land. 

This time, its sting was swift.

As he growled again in her head, she wiped at fresh tears with her palm.

_I don't need you anymore._

 

Bellamy didn't want to sleep naked. 

He didn't usually; preferred at least shorts, even when he was on the Ark. It had been a routine instilled on Earth, when events shifted so quickly from day to day that he might have had to rise while the moon was at its peak in the sky. Of course, there had been the deceptively liberating early days, when he'd welcomed many girls into his tent.

An arrogant, bull-headed young man. That’s who he had been.

Tonight, nudity would have been the convenient option, given the wound on his leg. He cracked a grin as he recalled the scene a few hours prior.

Jackson had been forced to pause while stitching him up, due to Bellamy’s unforeseen fit of laughter. Just a bemused grunt at first, then full-on cackling that wrung tears from his eyes while Echo and Miller watched on in shock. He had quaked with it, only laughing harder as his leg pounded painfully in time. 

He had glimpsed the long scar on his _left_ leg while his right was being treated—courtesy of a Grounder, when he'd been undercover on his ill-fated Wanheda Rescue Mission, so many years ago. 

The bleak irony of who inflicted the fresh wound, the entire evolution of the two of them since then, had reduced him to a hysterical fit. It actually did ebb the pain during the procedure, though he was twice as sore now.

Considerably direr was the reason he insisted on sitting awake, propped up against a wall in his still-bloodied pants: The bugs. 

Very dangerous bugs, apparently. The swarm had rather petrified him, in retrospect. They'd been fried by the radiation towers, and yet. . . He chose to ere on the safe side.

Echo was very much unconcerned with this irrational threat: She donned her usual  _nothing_  to bed. 

He studied the familiar, muscled curves of her. It was technically only their fourth night together since waking up. They'd done little more than kiss since then. Part of it was the business of a new planet, as well as the violent sickness they'd experienced. He wanted to say those were the only reasons for it. 

And yet. 

The psychosis had reportedly hit him. . . quite hard. Harder than the rest. He remembered most of it though, as if from a distance. Well enough to recall that the illness had been deft in its maneuver of him, cutting at the most sumptuous veins of his inner self. Naturally, Clarke had been a rather prevalent feature.

Of course she had. They'd been through a lot, he reasoned. They'd been at odds, often with dire consequences. Still, he cared for her deeply, she cared for him. They had forgiven each other before and then again. They were the very closest of friends for it. 

Blatant, factual statements—part of a rolodex in his brain whenever he thought about her too long. 

The eclipsing suns had taken those statements and fractured them like frailest ice. Even now, the deafening, fragmented whispers filled his head.

 

_She left you to die._

_After you_ saved  _her life, after you risked everything._

_She was willing to let your people die to save one of her own. Earth died because she killed it._

_She threw you into the pit and didn't look back._

_She left you._

_She chose Finn._

_She chose Lexa._

_She chose Madi._

_She said she needed you._

_You lived without her._

_You are better without her._

_Every world is better without her._

 

He closed his eyes against the poisonous words. He had hardly been conscious at his most ravenous, as he’d held Murphy in the water. But the most horrific moments, when he'd been over her—

 

_She's almost gone._

_She's the worst of them. People die when she's in charge._

_Save them all._

 

Bellamy slowly scrubbed his face. Carefully as he could, he pulled on his shirt, stood up, and limped his way into the night. 

If Echo was aware of his departure—as she generally had been in the past—she opted to leave him be.

 

He decided to settle on the steps overlooking the vibrant expanse. At this hour, Inner Sanctum appeared as abandoned as they'd first found it, though the amber castle was luminous, likely teeming with diplomatic life. The diameter of the moon's great ringed planet filled the night sky, the mountainous landscape beneath stealing his breath. 

He was reminded of her at the infinite distance. He'd hardly had a moment to reflect on their brief exchange in the classroom before they'd lost their collective minds. His heart had stopped at her aghast expression when he confessed that he knew about the calls, then ached as she sheepishly figured it was mad of her to do what she did—further proof that irony ruled the day.

He'd been grateful in the moment that she knew nothing of what  _he'd_ been like after losing her at Praimfaya. True, he'd moved on—quite thoroughly. But the first months were. . . devastating. Shamefully debilitating. The grief of leaving his people to survive in a sunless prison while his world burned, laced with the greatest loss he'd endured since that of his mother. Since he'd thought he'd lost his sister. Operating as if he’d lost half of himself, too. 

She wasn't crazy for talking to a broken radio. Compared to his weeks-long detachment, she was miraculously productive. He had to remind himself of her insistence that it was merely a means of keeping her sane; for the way it made his chest tighten, some long-sunken emotion coiling in his gut. . .

Maybe the psychosis wouldn’t have been quite as bad without that conversation.

He opted to remain seated, hamstrings flaring, as his gaze fixed upon a figure ducking out of one of the little structures. The one directly next to his own, in fact.

She, too, remained in the same attire since landing. He couldn't help but smile as he watched her, unseen—a rare opportunity. Always that determined posture, even if she was exhausted. She took a few steps, scanning her surroundings exactly as he had—pausing on the glowing castle, briefly perplexed before roaming further. 

He couldn't quite tell in the dim luminance, but he was pretty sure she was squinting when she spotted him at last (truthfully, he was a bit distracted by the fact that the golden cast turned her hair into spun gold). Her shoulders relaxed slightly as he waved. She kept her eyes trained on the crimson-sanded ground as she approached. 

As he discerned the flush in her cheeks, he blamed his quickening pulse on sleep deprivation—only to promptly decide it was the thickest excuse he'd ever made.

 

Clarke needed to get  _out_ —out of her own head. Before she left her quarters, she grabbed a strip of gauze from the pack her mom had brought down and soaked it in some of her new favorite plant, before tying it about her neck like some sort of slimy scarf.

Alien fashion.She snorted at the thought. 

She sighed when the breeze hit her eccentric treatment, the area suddenly cool as ice. She was trying to determine how far she could walk without "running into" one of the citizens; or being eaten alive by a tree; or terminated by some other manner of this moon's lethal nonsense. It seemed wisest to go the way they arrived—though she faltered as the light just illuminated a figure sat on the steps. It was almost embarrassing how quickly she identified him, even before he waved. The very shape of him, the build, the way his clothes clung to him—types of things an artist observed more than the average person. Though maybe she was flattering herself there.

And of course she couldn't rip away her gooey bandage mid-stride. She'd need to sound credible, doctoral. Try not to cringe as she immediately brought attention to the events of the past day. 

To his credit, his face remained mostly smooth, though his eyes did catch on the adornment as she joined him. She left a good half a meter between them, in spite of the fact they’d lost consciousness with their legs tangled up.

"It's a medical thing," she uttered. His brows rose as she gestured pointlessly. "This is just. . . I didn't think anyone would be. . ." 

"Looks fine to me." His eyes crinkled for a second before they shuttered, his fingers curling near his wounded thigh. "I know it wasn't our fault—that we couldn't control—"

"Bellamy."

“I had it worse than everyone else. I was a threat to all of you today, but you and John—I would never hurt either of you. I’m so sorry, Clarke."

She studied him without a trace of chagrin. "We do this a lot, don't we? Forgive each other, I mean."

He cocked his head. "You can't already forgive me for almost choking you to death."

"But I do. And I stabbed you."

"You did. Got me good." He chuckled throatily before explaining his earlier epiphany. She had to suppress her own raspy giggles, not so much at the comparison as the way it had so thoroughly amused him. 

“I was gonna go on a walk, but. . . Probably not the best idea.”

He hummed in agreement. “You, uh, feeling all right, though?” He loosely gestured towards his neck, expression strained.

She waved a hand at his thigh. “Didn’t get stabbed, so.”

“Clarke—”

“I’m fine,” she said gently. “My brain just doesn’t seem as tired as my body.”

“I know the feeling.” He cracked a smile.

They let the night speak for a while. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?” she murmured some time later. “There’s so little we know about this place, and what we’ve learned has been. . .”

“Problematic?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

Bellamy nodded, brows drawn. His face and hair were limned by the warm light. “You know, it’s probably naïve to think so, but I feel like we’re gonna be okay, Clarke. I really do. After everything else that’s happened. . . I mean, we’re here. That’s not nothing—even if it was a rough landing.”

She studied him, somewhat stunned by the earnest hope behind his words—and a bit guilty that the same didn’t dwell inside of her.

Before she could muster a response, he was already speaking, with a rawness she’d so rarely heard from him. “It’s not just what I did to you. That’s awful enough. But what I _said_ to you. . .”

She blinked in surprise. “You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of it. Too much. I don’t know why, exactly—maybe because we were talking when it started to get bad for me—but I remember everything that happened with you. Like someone else was controlling my hands, my mouth, but it was still _me._ ”

“It wasn’t, though,” she breathed. “I know what you mean when you say that, but I promise it was not you—not enough to blame yourself.”

“Clarke, everything we said and did was _in_ us somewhere. You realize that, don’t you?”

“But we didn’t choose to act on those things, to make them the only things we could think about. We all have darkness buried in us. We’ve all known too much of it. But it’s not who we are unless we choose for it to be.”

His throat bobbed as he searched her face. “I never. . . I haven’t even asked what it was for you.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I’ve been so focused on myself. Not that it’s even my business to know—dammit, I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t sure when she’d moved closer to him. Decided to disregard it, stirred at the sight of him undone. This type of erraticism was wholly him, tender and wistful, not violent and malicious, as the sickness had twisted him into. She didn’t know how to share herself fully, even with Madi; maybe she had once, but time had hardened her. If there was ever someone who drew vulnerability from her though. . .

“My mom was on the radio, trying to get me to cut my own throat. Like cancer, she said. Like I _was_ cancer, to the planet, to everyone around me. Everyone I love.”

He stared at her in wounded astonishment, suddenly gone quite still.

She lifted her shoulders. “I know that was inside of me, too. That feeling. But I can’t help that the psychosis exploited that, just like you can’t, or anyone else. I know I’ve fought too hard to survive, and have too much to lose, to ever do something like that. I also know that you want to protect us—but you’re not insane. You’d have to be, to think that you’re saving anyone by slaughtering them.

“You know all of that, too. I’m not trying to talk to you like a kid or anything. Doesn’t mean it can’t help to hear it.”

Bellamy’s eyes shone. Despite being so dark they seemed to absorb the night, they were astoundingly bright. “And here I thought I’d finally learned how to use my head.”

“Your head was frozen for over a century. Go easy on yourself.”

He groaned quietly. “You’re still a brat.”

“Oh? That’s a new one.”

“Like it?”

“Average. Five out of ten.” They chuckled together, Clarke willfully ignoring the soreness of her throat.

Exhaustion seemed to hit them at precisely the same moment, having each found some resolve in one another. Both yawned hugely, Clarke keeling over slightly, catching herself on her palms while he braced her with a hand.

“You’re not taking any pain meds, are you?” he mused.

“Shuddup,” she said around another yawn, “or mmgonna. . . stab you again.”

He rolled his eyes. “We should get some rest. C’mon.”

She swatted him off as he tried to help pull her up. “You’ve got the bum leg, ‘member?”

He resigned himself with a grin, clasping her arm and slinging his other around her shoulder—hissing as he shifted his weight.

“You good?”

“Mm-hm.” His brow furrowed as he straightened fully. “Yeah, that—doesn’t feel great.”

“I’ll escort you back, Mr. Blake.” She beamed like a schoolchild at his exasperated look.

“No, I’m— _ah_ _—_ I think it fell asleep or something.”

“Baby steps. You have your salve in your room, right?” He nodded tightly.

Taking their time, they were halfway to their quarters when his torso began shuddering against her, his breathing strangled. She halted them, craning her neck to see his face. “Bellamy? Hey—”

She gaped as he loosed a low, hoarse laugh, the force of it wracking them both. Upon glimpsing her baffled face, he doubled over with a howl, a few _ow’s_ sprinkled in. She grunted under his weight, which hung to the right as he threw his head back and sent them both into the soil with a pathetic _thump_.

Clarke untangled herself from his arms, gawking as he lay out on his back, clutching his stomach. “You asked me if _I’m_ taking pain meds?” she demanded.

He wheezed, tears rolling. “It’s—the same. The exact same, Clarke! The—leg and—not being— _able to walk_ —” She was speechless as he rolled onto his side with another wave. When he caught his breath a few moments later, he added, “I was looking for you, then. And now you’re the one—you _stabbed_ me and now _you’re_ leading me back—”

She’d never seen him. . . giddy. Only truly happy a handful of times, for that matter. She glanced around to see a few befuddled heads pop up in windows; she waved, smiling apologetically as she said through her teeth, “This is doing nothing for our reputation here, Bellamy.”

He seemed to be at the end of the fit, leaning up on his elbows and nodding towards some of the strangers. “You can go ahead, if you—oh, okay—”

Clarke already gripped him under both armpits and hoisted upwards. “Today—is a very— _urgh—_ weird day.”

He was clearing his throat, muttering apologies under his breath as he found his balance. She surveyed him—chest heaving, eyes sparkling, leaning heavily on his good leg—and had to think quickly before her expression went slack. 

She grimaced. “You’ve probably made that a lot worse. I'm sure the salve will help, though if it's gotten dirty. . .” She trailed off as she watched his face fall, eyes sliding down to just above her collarbone.

Her hands flew upwards—and met bare skin.

The bandage now lay soiled on the ground a few feet away. "Hey," she said, struggling for a placating tone. “Hey, I’m okay. Really. It’ll heal up in a day or two, and—”

He was both gentle and fervid as he half-stumbled forward and embraced her. His arms always sort of engulfed her when he did, secure as any chains and infinitely more comfortable. His breathing was unsteady near her ear as his fingers lightly smoothed her scalp. 

Clarke pressed her lips together against an embarrassing noise—probably a sob—as she gripped the downy fabric of his shirt, anchoring them. 

“We’re fine,” she breathed against him. And because she needed to hear it herself, she clarified, “You and me, Bellamy. We're gonna be okay.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I'm alive, and 2) Yes, I did look up 3x02 to figure out which leg was hurt in that episode because I'm a very good writer.
> 
> For the record, I feel like it's important to acknowledge that Bellamy's relationship with Echo was never superficial to him, her, or Clarke. As much as I want (and fully hope for) Blarke to reign, I'm not about to totally discredit that relationship. I haven't seen all of 6.03 or 6.04 yet, just FYI, so any parallels are accidental.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this deep conversation and some silliness, and I really appreciate comments. Thank you guys!


End file.
